Broken

My friend’s father, 

white

and wealthy, 

discharged his gun 

into the dirt

and the trespassers

stopped painting mud lines 

across his fields 

long enough 

to send him 

to jail.

Also white

also wealthy,

and bored in the ways 

their privilege 

bought for them, 

they claimed 

deadly weapons 

and assault, 

although no one 

was touched, 

no blood pooled 

between broken stalks. 

Across the country, 

another man, 

with a gun 

strapped to his side, 

killed a black man 

with his knee, 

and went home 

for dinner. 

For George

I can’t write a poem about this.

It is awful, indescribably awful, to watch the places I know so well go up in flame. To know that men I know have fought so hard against one another, people who, under different circumstances, may have shared a beer in my backyard, talking over the noise as their children ran screaming through a sprinkler. It is heartbreaking to be so far away from my friends who are risking their lives to convince us they matter, and even worse to be glad for the safety that distance affords me, to feel guilt flooding over relief.

I can’t write a poem about this.

I don’t know enough and I feel too much and no vocabulary could possibly convey even half of what needs to be said. So I weep, and I pray, and I donate, and I educate, and I advocate and I listen. And I know it won’t bring him back, won’t bring justice to his killers or comfort to his family, but I can promise this: my children will know his name. We will not be complacent or complicit.

What are the words

the name of 

the heaviness in my gut, 

tightness of chest, 

heart with too little 

blood to pump, 

too thick with grief 

to reach 

the tips of my fingers? 

What can I call 

the ache, 

the hollow 

that cannot be filled, 

the falling apart 

when you are too far 

to pull me together? 

What unfathomable magic, 

to paint the sorrow 

into neat letters, 

to spell out 

loneliness 

and confine it 

to the page. 

Beach Betrothal

Even a puddle,

shallow enough 

to walk through 

wetting nothing 

but the bottom 

of my shoes, 

reminds me 

of the lake 

we swam in, 

young 

and in love.

You asked me 

to be yours, 

staring out 

into the waves 

as if you couldn’t 

bear to look 

directly at me, 

but holding my hand 

as if I 
was the only one

who could rescue you 

from drowning. 

Each time the sun 

kisses the shore,

(the way you 

traced kisses 

across my neck)

she finds her 

reflection 

on the water, 

two halves 

of the same 

whole. 

It is raining now, 

and in the morning

when we wake, 

the world will be 

full of tiny lakes,

each one, 

a way that

I have loved you. 

Each one, 

a day that

you have held
my heart.

Lightning

Falling in love is like 

being struck by lightning. 

Sure, it hurts at first, 

squeezes you closed 

so tightly that your muscles 

will burn with the memory, 

overpowers all of your senses 

so that all you can hear, 

smell, 

taste, 

see 

is that face, 

this face, 

(YOUR face) 

burned across your eyelids, 

leaves your hair singed 

and every nerve ending 

standing at attention, 

but darling, 

what a story we will tell, 

of the lightning that struck, 

not just once

not even twice, 

but the quicksilver awakening 

each time we fell in love. 

The Octopus

The female octopus 

resolutely 

stands guard, 

not even leaving 

her eggs 

to hunt. 

She eats 

her own arm instead, 

stays, starving, 

to protect her eggs. 

She blows bubbles 

over them,

oxygenating 

the ocean floor. 

Your mother, 

smaller now 

than when you last 

held her, 

gives you pieces 

of herself 

each time 

you see her: 

an eye, 

to see the truth, 

a foot, 

to stand firm, 

a finger, 

to point you 

in the direction 

you must go.

Her hand 

brushes your cheek 

and you remember 

summer nights that 

she whispered 

cool words across 

your back 

as you lay 

restless 

in the dark. 

This is a mother’s love, 

to be always giving, 

even when there is 

nothing more 

to give. 

May the Fourth

Call it what you want:

fate, destiny, the force.

It’s unstoppable.